


Requiem

by Flye_Autumne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Hermione Granger-centric, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Post-First War with Voldemort, Rise of Voldemort, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flye_Autumne/pseuds/Flye_Autumne
Summary: In 1981, Lord Voldemort was victorious in Godric’s Hollow. Fourteen years later, he rules Britain with an ironclad fist. Each year, young witches and wizards compete in Requiem for a place in his inner circle. When Hermione is chosen to represent London, she’s forced to use every one of her skills to succeed -- or die trying.Very AU. Hunger Games inspired.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 58
Kudos: 108





	1. Olympus Club

_With the last of his foes kneeling before him, the Dark Lord Voldemort rose. ‘There will be peace,’ he said. ‘There will be prosperity, and most importantly, there will be magic.’ The people nodded, for they saw this was good, and under the guidance of our Lord, Magical Britain moved into a new Golden Age._

\--Excerpt from _Rise of Our Saviour_ , published in 1982 following the fall of the old Ministry

**Knockturn Alley, London**

**18 July 1995**

**1:00 am**

The scent of blood, sweat, and cheap whiskey lay heavy in the air. The odor was typical of the red light district of Knockturn Alley, although the blood was mostly unique to the Olympus Club. Coins clinked as money rapidly changed hands, and patrons jockeyed for a spot around the ring, eager to have the best view of the fights. 

The black robed man moved effortlessly through the crowd, unnoticed by the majority of the club’s denizens. Those who did notice him shied away instinctively. Most powerful men called attention to themselves, and those who didn’t were dangerous. The black robed man fell squarely into the second category, for while it was one thing to gain the Dark Lord’s attention, it was quite another to become his right-hand man, a position the dark man held for well over ten years. 

He made his way to the edge of the ring, and with the shrewdness of a gambler, watched the fight. It was recruitment season for Requiem, and suitable candidates had yet to be found for the London district. 

“Ares beats Apollo!” bellowed a voice. “Next round, Athena versus Hermes, starts in ten minutes! The betting pool is now open.” 

The fetid sea of humanity stirred, raucous voices filling the air as odds were hawked and coins changed hands once again. The hulking form of Eustace Preece, alias Ares, was hustled towards the exit while another employee quite literally pried Phineas Blane, alias Apollo, out of the bloody sand.

The man frowned. While the fight between Preece and Blane could be loosely qualified as entertainment, it wasn’t the one he was here to see. Preece was a physical powerhouse, and well-qualified to bowl other people over. However, he wasn’t the right sort for Requiem. Requiem required a certain precision and tact that a brute like Preece couldn’t begin to understand. The bulky blond could possibly do in a pinch for a backwater district like Ballycastle, but he would not suffice for London.

A gong sounded, resonating deep in his sternum. Patrons hurried towards the ring, and one drunk wizard made the mistake of attempting to elbow the dark man away. A pointed glare left him cowering in fear, muttering an apology, and scampering away. 

“I give you...Athena!” shouted the announcer. 

The crowd bellowed its approval as a tall girl strode into the ring. She was quite pretty despite the nasty scar that cut from the corner of her nose to the edge of her jaw. Her short leather skirt and bustier certainly made the crowd appreciate her for her looks, if not her skill. 

The man stared thoughtfully. Belle Chang was another one of the potential candidates for the London district. As halfblood whose parents made the mistake of siding with Dumbledore, Chang hadn’t had it easy. When her parents were disposed of during the Purge of ‘84, Chang had assumed responsibility over her younger sister Cho, moonlighting at the Voiceless Sparrow to keep Cho in school and away from the streets. Eventually, the older Chang had found better employment at the Olympus Club, and Cho remained at the Gaunt Institute of Magical Learning, hopefully unaware of her older sister’s nighttime activities. 

“I give you...Hermes!”

The man’s eyes furrowed. While his files were fastidiously accurate for most of the denizens of Olympus Club, ‘Hermes’ remained an enigma. He was very slight, perhaps 160 centimeters tall at most, and had close cropped brown curly hair. Extensive trawling through legal papers revealed ‘Hermes’ to be one H.J. Dagworth-Granger, an illegitimate and since disowned member of the pureblood Dagworth-Grangers. Allegedly, H.J. was the child of a Knockturn Alley whore and one of Corinth Dagworth-Granger’s more insipid nephews, but that was entirely up to rumor and wild speculation. 

‘Hermes’ stalked across the sand with the understated grace of a great cat. He truly was an odd looking boy -- he had the big eyes and the delicate, almost feminine features of a child, but one look at his gait revealed him to be anything but that. Somehow, at the tender age of fifteen, H.J. Dagworth-Granger had become a seasoned fighter, and somehow, far before then, he’d gathered enough influence to make his records disappear. 

The man gave the boy an appraising look. ‘Hermes’ was the real reason he had come to the Olympus Club. H.J. Dagworth-Granger was just the right sort for Requiem, and there was also the not so small question of the records. That spoke of a delicate touch, manipulation, and cunning -- the tools of a true Slytherin that were so rarely found among adolescents. 

“Combatants at the ready!”

Chang drew a wicked looking knife, and Dagworth-Granger crouched slightly, body tightly coiled like a spring. 

“Fight!” 

Chang lunged forward, knife flashing as Dagworth-Granger kicked up a veritable wall of sand, obstructing the man’s view of him. Half a heartbeat later, the sand settled, revealing Dagworth-Granger armed with a pair of escrima sticks. The boy snarled, and the crowd cheered as he raised the escrima sticks. Chang slashed her knife, attempting to use her height as an advantage, but Dagworth-Granger was too fast, and her blade slid uselessly to the side.

It took only half a heartbeat for Chang to draw a second knife, but was enough for Dagworth-Granger to get a hard blow in on her ribs. They parried back and forth several times, the knives a deadly silver blur. Each time, the boy blocked the knives with the escrima sticks, and despite Chang’s redoubled efforts, she couldn’t break through his defense. 

Dagworth-Granger advanced on Chang, escrima sticks tapping out a faster rhythm. Chang faltered again, and Dagworth-Granger lunged forward, aiming for Chang’s head. Chang’s knives flashed, and suddenly Dagworth-Granger’s shirt was stained with blood, crimson standing stark against the white fabric. 

The boy growled, the sound deep and predatory. For a split second, everything froze as Dagworth-Granger and Chang sized each other up. A tense look of concentration passed over the boy’s face as the sand covering the ground began to tremble, then rise in a terrible wave.

Dagworth-Granger rushed forward in a flurry of motion, escrima sticks blurring together. With a jolt, he realized the boy had been holding back. Chang coughed sharply as sand particles found their way into her lungs, and within moments, one of her knives skittered across the sand. Dagworth-Granger swept his leg, and Chang fell to the ground, knife rendered useless by the pressure of the boy’s foot. 

He smiled -- a blank, rote twist of the lips -- as the crowd roared its approval. The escrima sticks rose one final time, then cracked sharply over Chang’s head. Her body went limp, and Severus could tell she wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. 

“Hermes beats Athena and remains undefeated!” the announcer shouted over the drunken din. “We have two special guests with us later tonight, fighting under the names Theseus and Minotaur. The battle will begin in twenty minutes. Place your bets!” 

The man’s lip curled. He knew all too well who Theseus and Minotaur were. Janus Lestrange, Rodolphus and Bellatrix’s eldest child, had inherited his mother’s bent for sadism in addition to her exhibitionist nature. Minotaur was most likely Vincent Crabbe, the latest victim in Janus’ schemes. Bellatrix would almost certainly offer Janus as London’s male candidate for Requiem. Janus was vicious, the man would give him that, but Janus lacked the finesse he deemed essential for Requiem. Luckily for him, and unfortunately for Bellatrix, the man all but had the final decision in who the Requiem candidates would be. For that exact reason, none of his children would ever compete. They weren’t old enough yet -- Sebastian was eleven, and candidates had to be at least fifteen to compete. He was certain Sebastian would ask, but unfortunately his son would never be permitted to so foolishly risk his life.

The man moved effortlessly through the crowd. He could never fathom why his fellow Death Eaters nominated their children for Requiem. With thirty-six candidates -- one female, and one male from each settlement -- there was no guarantee that their children would win and earn a coveted position in the Dark Lord’s council. 

“Alexander.”

The club owner started, then blanched. He was a short man, balding, with a slight paunch and a weak chin. “Severus! I didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

“I go where the Dark Lord bids me.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Alexander said hurriedly, jowls quivering. 

“I need to speak with the one called Hermes.”

Alexander’s brow furrowed, and the reek of the man’s sweat laid heavily in the air. It was odd that he would be so nervous, but Severus wasn’t the sort of man who inspired joy. “Hermes? Why?”

“The matter does not concern you,” he said coldly. “Tell me where I can find the fighters’ quarters.”

Alexander figited uncomfortably. “The public isn’t allowed upstairs.”

Severus made eye contact, and he could practically smell the fear rolling off the other man. “I am certain you could make an exception for me,” he said softly. “Of course, if you choose not to tell me, I can simply rip the information out of your mind, although I am certain we will not need to resort to such vulgarities.” 

Alexander paled. “I -- I --”

“I should not need to remind you that I speak with the Dark Lord’s blessing.” Severus drew a small bag of Galleons from his robes. “You are lucky. Tonight, I am in a good mood, and if you cooperate, I could be persuaded to give you this --” he shook the bag lightly, and the Galleons chinked together, “-- to ease your mind.”

Alexander swallowed, eyes fixated on the bag. “O-of course. I would never wish to stand in the way of one of the Dark Lord’s chosen.”

Severus took a step closer. “Well?”

The smell of sweat became decidedly more pronounced. “The rear stairs are located five paces from the back wall on the left hand side. The password is nemesis.” 

“And Hermes?”

Alexander looked away. “Room three. The password is Thanatos.” 

Severus tossed the bag, and stalked off, not bothering to check to see whether or not Alexander was pathetically rifling through its contents. A whispered word made the grimy bricks in front of him fade, and he stepped through. The staircase beyond was a dingy shade of beige, but surprisingly well lit. Severus climbed the stairs idly and strode down the hall, pausing for a heartbeat before room three.

“Thanatos,” he intoned. The door clicked, and he pushed it open. The room beyond was spartan, to put it generously. A cheap tallboy dresser stood against one wall, and a small desk and chair against the other. Dagworth-Granger was shirtless, and perched on the bed, stitching up the gash that ran from the top of his hip to the bottom of his breast -- _her_ breast. 

H.J. Dagworth-Granger was a girl. A very thin one, based on the prominence of her rib cage and vertebrae. 

“Can I help you?” the girl asked blankly, not pausing in her stitching. “You are aware, of course, that patrons are not allowed in the fighters’ quarters, and that I could put a knife in you before you had the chance to draw your wand? The Voiceless Sparrow is the next building over, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m not here for such base activities,” Severus said, marveling at the girl’s ability to remain nonchalant. He couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke to him so brusquely. It was almost refreshing. “I’m here to talk.”

The girl snorted. “As if I’m going to believe that.” 

“Perhaps I ought to further elucidate the reason for my presence,” Severus began coldly, good mood dissipating. He was many things, morally questionable high among them, but he certainly wasn’t a liar or an adulterer. “My name is Severus Snape, and I am here by proxy from the Dark Lord to officially invite you to participate in Requiem.” 

The girl’s stitching paused for the briefest of moments. “Why was I, out of all of those residing in the London district, selected?” 

“You are the most eligible female candidate.” 

“I never applied.”

“Your actions speak for themselves.” 

“I don’t doubt that. I am merely wondering how I, at not-quite sixteen, am the most qualified female candidate from London.” 

“You would be wise not to ask.”

The girl nodded, and tied off the thread before reaching for a small tub of potion. It was vivid purple, and foul smelling. Much to his surprise, Severus didn’t recognize it. The girl smeared it liberally across the gash, and her skin smoked for several seconds before clearing to reveal a half-healed scar. Twitching her fingers, she wandlessly summoned a shirt from across the room and put in on.

“You were saying?”

“One would be wise not to question the will of the Dark Lord.” 

The girl swallowed. “Odd that the Dark Lord himself would take notice of a penniless halfblood.” 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “We both know one of those things is not true.”

The girl turned around, amber eyes wide with shock and a hint of surprise. “You think I have money?”

Severus gave her a measuring look. “Don’t play stupid with me, I know just what sort of person you are.” 

The girl shrugged, somehow making the motion elegant. “Do I have any sort of choice in whether I participate in Requiem?”

“No.” Severus summoned a roll of parchment from the depths of his robes. “You will fill out this form, I will give you the mandatory welcome speech, and we will each be on our merry way.” He applied a light banishing charm to the roll to send it towards her, and she caught it easily. Her quill started scratching away as he continued to speak.

“Congratulations,” he began, lips twisting ironically, “You have been selected to compete in Requiem for a position of power at the Dark Lord’s side. Requiem officially begins on 31 October; however, you will be expected to enroll at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the observation period. Your transcripts from the Gaunt Institute will be transferred to Hogwarts, and you may take placement exams the week prior to the start of term should you deem it necessary. Your tuition has been covered by the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund, and you will receive a supply list along with an allowance in the upcoming week. Do you have any questions?”

The girl blinked, and handed him the parchment. “No.” 

“Excellent.” Severus glanced down at the parchment. The name Hermione Jean Dagworth-Granger scrawled its way across the top. “Term begins on 1 September. I recommend you grow your hair out before then.” He turned, robes twisting sharply around his ankles as he exited the room, glad to leave the repulsive club behind him.

* * *

**Hogsmeade, Scotland**

**19 July 1995**

**2:39 am**

The door shut with scarcely a whisper, and Severus toed his boots off before running a hand angrily through his hair. 

Sod the Dark Lord.

Sod his policies. 

Sod fucking Bellatrix Lestrange. 

A sound of exasperation escaped his lips, and in the corner of the room a wand tip lit.

“Severus? Are you alright?”

Severus whirled around. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Severus bit out. 

“You know I worry.” 

“I know.” Severus sunk onto the couch, knees apart, head balanced on his hands. “Doesn’t mean I bloody well have to like it.” 

“Are you alright?” Aurora asked again. 

“No.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to drown myself in the shower and forget any of this ever happened.” 

“Severus…”

“Janus Lestrange is one of the London candidates for Requiem.” 

“Ah. I assume Bellatrix pushed hard for that?”

“Of course. Pulled a bloody favor with the Dark Lord to go behind my back about it. The bitch thinks it’s bloody Yule, having her son compete, and was just fucking delighted to go behind my back about it.” Severus could feel his accent slipping into the slurred vowels of Cokeworth, but couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Who’s the other candidate for London?” 

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger. One of Chesney Dagworth-Granger’s bastards. She’s nearly sixteen, but looks to be about twelve.” 

“Oh, Merlin…” Aurora put a comforting hand on his thigh, clearly at a loss for words. “Did Bellatrix pull a favor for that, too?”

Severus shook his head. “She could kill Janus Lestrange in a fair fight. Possibly in an unfair one, too.” 

Aurora sighed. “Do I want to know how?” 

“No.” 

“But you’ll tell me anyway?”

Severus studied his socks, weighing his words carefully. “She’s been working in the Olympus Club since age thirteen.” 

“Is that…”

“The one where they must fight wandless? Yes.”

“Why…”

“When the other option is to work at the Voiceless Sparrow, one quickly makes alternate plans.”

Aurora paled. “But why was she out on the street in the first place?”

Severus shrugged. He had several theories, each more likely than the next, but he didn’t wish to share them. Not the true theories, at least. “She’s one of Chesney Dagworth-Granger’s bastards. That fat prick has fathered numerous children off Knockturn Alley whores, and the girl merely made the mistake of trying to get money out of her father. Obviously, that wasn’t going to be possible, and she ended up on the streets. The records are as to where she was prior to age eleven, but it can’t have been anywhere good.” Severus swallowed, surprised at the level of emotion welling up. “There was this look in her eyes when I spoke to her...no child should look like that…” 

“Oh, Severus…”

He stood, and forcibly clamped down on his emotions. They had no place here. “There’s nothing we can do about it. And, Merlin willing, Janus Lestrange will be dead before the New Year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome to another relic of my Google drive, courtesy of COVID-19! I'm super excited to start posting this; this is quite easily the most AU fic I've written. I hope you enjoy it - I've got a bunch of chapters pre-written and I'm hyped to share this story with you!


	2. Overseer

_Much as a herd of púka cluster together for warmth during the winter months, wizards must band together to be strong. Alas, our chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The Dark Lord saw this, and in his infinite wisdom, understood. Like a kindly shepherd, he brought our lost lambs out of their Muggleborn filth into the fold._

\-- Excerpt from _What Our Lord Does for You_ , a Wizarding Wireless Programme first presented in June 1983

**Knockturn Alley, London**

**20 August 1995**

**10:30 am**

Hermione stared into the mirror and sighed. By some trick of fate -- or, more likely, by some manipulation by Severus Snape -- she’d been granted the entire month of August off from work and still been allowed free room and board. She’d been studying like mad, as she hadn’t officially attended school since she started working at the Olympus Club.

It’d been frighteningly easy to catch up on Defense, Transfiguration, and Charms, and Hermione had seriously questioned the caliber of Britain’s education system. Herbology and Potions had been much harder to study since she didn’t have access to a greenhouse or a Potions lab, but she’d made do with copious memorization. She was also planning on fireproofing a corner of her room so she could brew several practice potions. Unfortunately, most of the ingredients for useful potions were incredibly expensive, and she would have to settle for brewing things with more academic value than personal value. 

Once Hermione was confident she’d mastered the new material, she’d delved into other avenues of study that were key for maintaining her deception: Occlumency, and the Dark Arts. Luckily, basic Occlumentic principles were similar to the process Hermione underwent to control her mind each time she fought, and she’d manage to process farther into the psychic art than she’d initially hoped. The offensive magic portion of the Dark Arts came to Hermione easier than breathing, and a delightful shiver passed through her each time she called upon the insidious magic. She had no qualms about her ability to learn Dark magic, only whether or not she’d learned enough.

Hermione sighed, and returned her attention to her reflection. 

She wasn’t pretty. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Her hair was tightly curled, and a deep shade of brown which stood in sharp juxtaposition to her pale complexion. Her eyes were an odd shade of amber, and the entirety of her look could have been salvageable if it weren’t for the countless scars that spread across her body and her gaunt build from too many years without proper nutrition. Regretfully, there was nothing she could do about it other than make minor improvements to her hair situation. Hermione dug her left hand deep into the roots of her hair and cast a Hair Growth Charm with her right. Her hair lengthened slowly past her chin, then beyond her shoulders. She stopped the charm, and gave her head a rough shake to get rid of the leftover prickling. 

Hair slightly wild, but in place, Hermione set about getting dressed. Over the years, she’d developed a relatively eclectic taste in clothing, partially due to her job at the Olympus Club, and partially due to the large number of scars she needed to conceal. The white high-collared chemisier went on first, its fitted sleeves ending at her wrists. A wand sheath was attached to her right arm, then she donned a pair of narrow navy trousers. A burgundy over robe completed her outfit. The top of the robe was tailored, and fitted much like a frock coat while the bottom of the robe was split in dueling-style along the sides, the open seam running from the top of her hips to just beyond her knees where the robe ended. She slipped her feet into her dragonhide boots that’d been acquired second hand several years back. They’d been an indulgence, an illogical purchase when she’d been younger and more stupid, but now -- Hermione studied her complete outfit in the mirror, considering herself for a moment -- she could easily pass as a halfblood, maybe even a lower-class pureblood. 

It would have to do. 

Hermione tucked her small purse into her robes pocket. Her benefactor hadn’t been clear on the extent of her generosity, and Hermione had long been conditioned to always be prepared. Hermione took one last look in the mirror, concentrated, then jabbed her wand at her hair. She studied her reflection closely. It wasn’t perfect, but once again, it would have to do. Snickering to herself, Hermione made her way out of her room. 

If there was an uncanny resemblance between her new hairstyle and the style favored by a young Bellatrix Lestrange, it was more than a mere coincidence. Hermione stalked through the ground floor of the Olympus Club, which was thankfully empty, through Knockturn Alley, and out into Diagon. Shops with brightly colored awnings lined the sides of the Alley, and hawkers shouted their wares as parents chivied along their children, eager to finish up back-to-school shopping. Hermione cut her way easily through the crowd, wending her way through the streets until she arrived in front of Gringotts. Her benefactor had yet to arrive, and Hermione settled herself onto a bench to wait. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait for long. Bellatrix Lestrange, Overseer of London, strode onto the scene with her daughter in tow. Hermione immediately stood.

“Madam Lestrange.” 

The woman gave her a once-over. “Miss Dagworth-Granger, I presume.” 

Hermione nodded. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Indeed.” Bellatrix stared at her, eyes hard. “I suppose Snape informed you on what will occur today?” 

“I was told you would ensure I was ‘suitably attired and in possession of the necessary materials’.” 

“Precisely.” Bellatrix was looking at her strangely again, and Hermione couldn’t quite puzzle out her expression. “I was given very specific instructions regarding you.”

Hermione arranged her features into a look of slight surprise. 

“Why might that be?”

“I don’t know.” 

Bellatrix clearly didn’t believe her in the slightest, but let the matter drop. “I assume you will need the full Hogwarts kit?”

“Yes, Madam Lestrange.” 

Bellatrix gave her a sharp nod. “My daughter, Isla, will be starting this year. You will require many of the same materials.” 

Hermione blinked at the non-sequitur. “Of course. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Lestrange.” 

The girl looked at her haughtily. Isla had the same wild curls as her mother, although hers were light brown while Bellatrix’s hair was black. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Dagworth-Granger,” Isla said primly. 

“Our first stop will be Madam Malkin’s,” Bellatrix said. “I already withdrew your allowance from the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund -- you will be allotted three uniforms.” 

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, brain whirling at how completely and utterly strange it was for the head of the London district to be speaking to her about uniforms. Thoroughly preoccupied by the surrealness of the moment, Hermione followed the Lestranges through Diagon Alley to Madam Malkin’s. The bell tinkled as they walked in, and Hermione pulled herself out of her thoughts as the plump proprietor bustled over. 

“Madam Lestrange! It’s a pleasure to see you in my shop!”

Bellatrix inclined her head in greeting. 

Madam Malkin smiled at Isla. “This must be your daughter, she looks exactly like you. Are you starting Hogwarts this year, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Isla said politely. 

Madam Malkin turned to face Hermione. “And this must be...your niece?”

An expression flitted across Bellatrix’s face, but it was gone before Hermione had time to decipher it. “Miss Dagworth-Granger is no relation of mine,” Bellatrix said coolly. 

“Oh...I beg your pardon,” Madam Malkin said, words tumbling out of her mouth. “Well, head to the back and Suzette and Lucy will take your measurements.” 

The woman bustled away, and Bellatrix’s lip curled. Hermione arranged her features into a look of contrite apology, then followed Madam Malkin into the back of the shop. The robe fitting passed quickly enough, and Bellatrix commissioned several other robes for Hermione in addition to the necessary uniforms. After all, Hermione was a reflection of the London district, and if she wasn’t properly outfitted, it would reflect poorly on Bellatrix and her husband. 

The following stops to Flourish and Blotts, and Ollivander’s were unnecessary for Hermione, as she required no textbooks and already owned a wand. Bellatrix made noises about sending Hermione etiquette books so she wouldn’t be a complete and utter embarrassment to the London district.

Bellatrix sniffed haughtily. “You will quickly find out, Miss Dagworth-Granger, that some Requiem candidates are simply better than others. Those from Upper Flagley, Holyhead, and Caerphilly tend to be particularly uncouth. You, of course, will have perfect behaviour. You will be seen at the social portion of Requiem with my son, and I will not have you humiliate my family or the London district in public.”

“Yes, Madam Lestrange.”

Bellatrix’s lip curled. “Excellent. London, after all, only provides the most polished candidates for Our Lord.” 

“Of course, Madam Lestrange.” 

Bellatrix gave her another strange look, and changed the subject. “I trust you are well-educated?” 

“I attended the Gaunt Institute for Magical Learning.”

“Your records indicate otherwise.”

“Pardon?” 

“You only attended the Gaunt Institute for a year and a term.” 

“There were...special circumstances.”

“Really.”

“I could discuss them, but not in public.” 

Bellatrix arched a manicured eyebrow, but didn’t respond. 

“It was a family matter,” Hermione said delicately. 

Bellatrix’s lip curled minutely. “Chesney Dagworth-Granger is your father.” 

“Yes.”

“I see. How thoroughly have you been briefed on Requiem?” 

“I have a solid understanding of it. Master Snape was quite clear.” 

“Humor me.” 

“Requiem officially begins on 31st October,” Hermione began rotely, “the observation period begins on 1st September at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The train to Hogwarts leaves on 31st August from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, which is accessible by Floo or via King’s Cross Station if one wishes to slum with muggles. At Hogwarts, housing will be provided to all candidates in a separate wing from the students. Candidates will have two months to improve their magical knowledge prior to taking part in Requiem.”

“And did Snape inform you precisely what Requiem entails?”

“A combination of dueling, political maneuvering, and other necessary challenges. I’m quite familiar with the format; it’s broadcast to the entire nation each year, after all.” 

Bellatrix glared at her, and Hermione regretted the cheek. Luckily, Isla chose that moment to butt into the conversation. 

“Mother, you promised I could get an owl.” 

Bellatrix smiled indulgently at her daughter. “Of course. Allow me a moment to conclude matters with Miss Dagworth-Granger.” Bellatrix turned to Hermione. “I trust you will be able to navigate to Platform Nine and Three Quarters without assistance?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“The last carriage on the Hogwarts Express is reserved for Requiem candidates,” Bellatrix said as she withdrew a small leather pouch from her robes pocket. “This is the remainder of your allowance. Use it wisely. I will owl etiquette books to you. If you embarrass London, you will not live to regret it.” With that, Bellatrix swept off with her daughter in tow, leaving Hermione in the middle of the alley with a handful of bags, and a significant number of Galleons. 

A genuine smile made its way across her face, the first one since she’d met Severus Snape. It was time to have fun.

* * *

**Hogsmeade, Scotland**

**20 August 1995**

**7:50 pm**

“Read, Da.” 

Severus eyed his small son speculatively from his vantage point on the couch. He was rather comfortable, and disinclined to move. 

Magnus jabbed him with the book, brown eyes staring imploringly. “Read, Da! Please!” 

Severus drew a long suffering sigh, and lifted the boy so he was perched on Severus’ stomach. Magnus bounced several times in delight before once again shoving the book in Severus’ face. “Time to read!” 

“What will it be this time?”

“Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump!”

“Again?”

“Yes! It’s my favorite!” 

Severus gave his son a look, which only served to send him into a fit of giggles, before thumbing through _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. 

“A long time ago,” Severus began, “in a land far, far away, a King decided to keep all the magic in the world for himself…” Severus sent on to recount the story of the foolish Muggle king who wanted to steal magic, and the clever witch who convinced him otherwise. Magnus listened avidly the entire time, eyes wide as if this was the first time Severus had read the story, not the three hundred and thirty-first. 

It was odd, having children. Severus had been a father for eleven years now; his oldest, Sebastian, was set to attend Hogwarts in September. Severus had never planned on getting married, let alone having children. When the Dark Lord named him Overseer of Hogsmeade in 1982, Severus had been surprised, but quickly fulfilled the role. At the suggestion of Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord himself, Severus married Aurora Sinistra, a Slytherin three years younger than him, in 1983. Severus had assumed he would need to produce the requisite one child, but no sooner had they conceived Sebastian than the Dark Lord passed the Family Decree. 

Due to declining birth rates, the Dark Lord rolled out a litany of incentives to promote larger families, chief among them tax breaks and entries in the Hogwarts lottery for families with four or more magical children. Severus’ children, of course, were guaranteed enrollment in Hogwarts due to his status as Overseer, but most halfblood children had to attend substandard secondary schools. The tax breaks weren’t incentives for Severus either as he had plenty of money, but the desire to maintain his lofty reputation won out. In addition to Sebastian, he had two daughters: Celeste, age nine, and Phoebe, age seven. His youngest son, Magnus, was four. 

Aurora was pushing for a fifth child, but Severus wasn’t sure he could handle another toddler in the house. Besides, he had more children than Lucius. In his heart, he knew that wasn’t a real achievement, especially because it was more due to Narcissa’s health than anything on Lucius’ end, but it was one of the few things Severus could lord over the blond wizard. It was a false sense of superiority, and Severus relished it all the same. 

Magnus bounced again, pulling Severus out of his thoughts. “Another story!”

Severus checked his pocket watch. “It’s nearly your bedtime.”

“Please?”

“I suppose we have time for _one_ more story. Which would you like?”

“Hmm...Tale of the Three Brothers!” 

Severus flipped through the pages. “Once upon a time, there were three brothers traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. Eventually, the brothers came to a deep, treacherous river that would drown anyone who tried to swim or wade across it. But, these brothers were no ordinary men. They were wizards, and with their gift of magic they conjured a bridge. The brothers began to cross the bridge, but were stopped in the middle by a hooded figure.” 

“By Death!” Magnus chimed in.

“Yes, by Death himself. Death pretended to congratulate the brothers on their cunning, and offered them gifts. The eldest brother was a fighter, and asked for the most powerful wand in the world. Death fashioned a wand from a nearby elder tree and gave it to him. The second brother was arrogant and wished to humiliate Death. He asked for the power to call beings back from behind the Veil. Death plucked a rock from the riverbank and crafted the Resurrection Stone. The youngest brother was wise, and did not trust Death. He asked for a way to go forth and remain hidden from Death’s everwatchful eye. Unable to go back on his promise, Death handed over his own Invisibility Cloak.”

“How did they know that Death is a boy?” Magnus wanted to know. 

“No one knows for certain,” Severus admitted before continuing the story. “Each of the three brothers continued to the other side of the river with their gifts in hand. The eldest brother journeyed onward to the village. He sought out a wizard with whom he had a grudge, and challenged him to a duel. The eldest brother quickly won, killing the other wizard in a heartbeat. Drunk on his victory, the eldest brother continued to the inn where he bragged of his prowess and invincibility. When he went to sleep that night, another wizard snuck into his room, slit his throat, and stole his wand. As such, Death took the first brother as his own.” 

Magnus frowned. “What does ‘prowess’ mean?”

“Skill. Now, the second brother continued along to his home where he lived alone. He twisted the Resurrection Stone thrice in his hand and called forth his dead financée. Much to his delight, she appeared, but she was sad and cold and still separated from him by the Veil. The second brother was driven mad by longing and hung himself. As such, Death took the second brother as his own.

“Death looked for the youngest brother for many years, but he never found him. At last, when the youngest brother reached a ripe old age, he took off the Invisibility Cloak and handed it to his son. He greeted Death as a friend, and they departed beyond the Veil as equals.” 

Magnus was silent for a moment. “Another story!” 

“No, it’s time for bed, come along now.” Severus scooped up his son and climbed the stairs, mind elsewhere. 

Severus knew all too well the truth behind the Tale of the Three Brothers. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell had once wandered the earth, and had possessed powerful magical artifacts. Whether the artifacts were crafted by Death himself was unknown, and privately Severus doubted it.

The Dark Lord, on the other hand, was fanatic in his pursuit of the so-called Deathly Hallows, or really anything that would grant him immortality. Severus had brewed countless potions over the years, unspeakable brews that lacked names even in the foulest of books. The Dark Lord was nearly seventy years old, but scarcely looked a day over twenty-five. It was a profoundly disturbing fact, and one Severus chose not to dwell on. 

Severus descended the stairs, making his way to his library, and then into his heavily warded study. He sat at his desk, withdrawing a small square of parchment from a secret compartment hidden in a secret drawer. Severus cupped the parchment in his hands for a heartbeat, then blew on it softly. 

Unseen by anyone, an outline of a phoenix flashed gold as the parchment burst into flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A couple points of clarification on this AU: 
> 
> 1) Lord Voldemort killed the entire Potter family in 1981 (James, Lily, and baby Harry). He subsequently overthrew the Ministry of Magic and instated his own regime.   
> 2) Most of the Order of the Phoenix is dead, or in hiding. A rare few live in Voldemort’s Britain and still serve the Order.   
> 3) More will be revealed as the story progresses. This is the most AU fic I’ve attempted, and there’s a lot of underlying reasons for character development that will become clear as things unfold. 


	3. Hogwarts

_ Each year, upon the anniversary of His Great Victory, a witch and a wizard from each settlement have the honor of competing in Requiem in hopes of winning a coveted position at our Lord’s side. This year, the half blooded Metamorphmagus Nymphadora Black was crowned champion, and granted a position on the Inner Circle. _

_ \--  _ Excerpt from the  _ Daily Prophet _ , 1989

**Knockturn Alley, London**

**31 August 1995**

**10:30 am**

Hermione carefully stowed the last of her belongings in her trunk before shutting the lid and firmly warding it. She’d made several additional purchases outside of the mandatory supplies, all of which were of questionable legality. It certainly wouldn’t do for anyone to happen upon them. 

After a quickly muttered Shrinking and Featherlight Charms, Hermione placed her trunk in her robes pocket and took a moment to take a last look at her quarters. They were spartan, to put it generously, and with any luck, she wouldn’t ever be coming back. 

Hermione made her way out of the fighters quarters, down the cramped staircase, and across the main floor of the club, which was empty except for a house elf that popped away with a panicked squeak. From there, it was a short walk through Knockturn and Diagon Alley to the public access Floo in the Leaky Cauldron. She deposited a Knut in the silver collection bowl, took a scoop of Floo powder, and threw it into the fireplace. 

“Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!” 

There was a flash of emerald green, a dizzying twist, and Hermione landed on her feet in the Platform Nine and Three-Quarters Flooport. Quickly moving out of the way so as to not get trampled by incoming wizards, Hermione made her way to the platform to where a large scarlet engine stood, belching copious amounts of steam. The platform itself was organized chaos, with parents herding children, trunks, and familiars. Hermione cut her way through the hullabaloo to the last carriage in the train. While a noticeable portion of Requiem candidates were current Hogwarts students or recent Hogwarts graduates, a significant portion were lower class halfbloods or mudbloods who’d attended local schools. Since the wealthier purebloods and halfbloods didn’t wish to mingle, the non-Hogwarts candidates were relegated to the back of the train. 

Hermione eyed the area critically. The carriage was subdivided into compartments, and a quick flick of her wand told her the compartments were warded against tampering. It was rather unfortunate. She would have to socialize the entire way to Hogwarts. Hermione had hoped for more time to observe the other candidates and collect her thoughts, but apparently it wasn’t meant to be. Sighing, she settled herself and her belongings into a compartment, chose a door with a good view of the exit, and consigned herself to waiting. 

She didn’t have to wait particularly long. Within a few minutes, the carriage began to fill. The compartment door slid open to reveal a boy and a girl, both with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Hermione wondered if they were siblings. Their bone structure was rather similar. 

“Do you mind if we sit here?” the girl asked.

“Feel free.” 

“Thanks. I’m Katie, by the way. Katie Bell. This is my brother Eli.” Katie eyed her fiercely, as if she expected a negative response. The siblings were likely halfbloods, then, and ones whose parents displeased the Dark Lord. 

“Pleasure.”

“And you are?”

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger.” 

“How come you aren’t up in front with the rest of the Hogwarts lot, then?” 

Hermione smiled coldly. “Because I’m one of Chesney Dagworth-Granger’s bastards, and he refuses to acknowledge my existence other than  _ generously  _ allowing me to carry his surname.”

Katie opened her mouth, then wisely closed it. 

“So, where are you from?” Hermione asked. 

“Chudleigh. Where --” 

The compartment door slid open again, conveniently interrupting their conversation. It was another pair of candidates, the boy tall with an impressive set of dreadlocks, and the girl petite and pale. Hermione idly wondered if she was one of the few candidates traveling alone. Most of the prominent districts sent two pureblood candidates, and she frankly had been quite surprised that she’d been chosen for London. 

“Are these seats empty?” the boy asked. 

Katie nodded. 

“Thank Merlin. Everywhere else is mostly full.” The boy hefted both trunks onto the luggage rack, and took a seat by the door. The girl sat next to Katie, leaving the seat between her and Hermione conspicuously empty -- not that Hermione minded in the slightest.

“Where are you lot from?” Katie asked. 

“Mould-on-the-Wold. And yourselves?” 

“Chudleigh. I’m Katie, and this is Eli.” 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lee.” 

“I’m Sally-Anne,” the girl muttered quietly. 

Lee looked at Hermione expectantly. “And you are?”

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger, from London.” 

Lee eyed her critically. “You’re one of those purebloods, then?”

“No.” 

Lee clearly expected her to elaborate, but Hermione saw no reason to bother. There was no logic in flaunting her status, and besides, she had an image to cultivate. Wandlessly, she summoned a book from her trunk, and began to read. 

Lee noticed, and made a face. “Seriously? You’re reading  _ Hogwarts: A History _ ?” 

Hermione smiled prettily. “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” 

Lee looked confused, and Hermione went back to her book which extrapolated on the runic applications of warding. It was quite fascinating, and most certainly not something wizards her age would read, which was exactly why the cover was charmed to  _ Hogwarts: A History _ . It was far better to be underestimated. 

The rest of the train ride passed uneventfully, except for the arrival of the trolley lady. Hermione splurged and purchased a cauldron cake, thoroughly enjoying the cinnamon and nutmeg flavored pastry. Before long, a voice sounded through the train. 

“The Hogwarts Express will reach Hogsmeade station in ten minutes. All your luggage should be left on the train.” 

Hermione grimaced at the thought of leaving her trunk alone, and carefully repacked her book inside it before casting several charms to notify her if anyone tampered with it. Around the compartment, Katie, Eli, and Lee fidgeted. Sally-Anne remained oddly still. There was something wrong about the girl; she didn’t seem to be entirely there. Katie pulled at the sleeves of her robes. They were clean, and of decent quality, but several years out of style. Hermione smiled in satisfaction. At least she knew she wouldn’t be the worst dressed. 

The train slowed to a halt, and Hermione swallowed. Requiem was about to unofficially begin, and she needed to be perfect. Any mistakes could be fatal at this point in time, especially for her. For purebloods, Requiem was an honor, and a way to network. Hermione had spent hours trawling through old Requiem records, and the death rate for purebloods sat at five percent. By contrast, the death rate for those of mixed heritage hovered around fifty percent. 

For Hermione, failure simply wasn’t an option. She knew at least Snape had conned onto her altered papers, and if Snape knew, the rest of Voldemort’s regime likely knew as well. She would run with her alleged status for as long as possible, but she couldn’t count on it to save her. 

“It’s time,” Lee said, voice raspy, and countance suddenly ashy.

Hermione rolled back her shoulders and straightened her spine. “Well?” she asked, projecting a confidence she didn’t feel, “Are you lot coming or not?” With that, she left the compartment, not caring to wait to see if the others followed her. The corridor of the train was half-full as they queued for the exit. After what felt like far too much waiting, Hermione reached the door. A tiny wizard with a clipboard looked up at her, clearly bored. 

“Name?”

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger.”

The wizard scribbled something on his clipboard. “Proceed to the next Requiem-marked thestral carriage,” he said tonelessly, beckoning her through.

Even though it was still summer, the air was quite chilly. Hermione stared fruitlessly into the dark, trying to pick out the details of the looming black mass of Hogwarts castle above. A gust of wind swept down the train, and Hermione quickly abandoned the task in lieu of heading to the thestral carriages. Luckily, the carriage stop wasn’t terribly far from the platform, and one of the Requiem carriages was waiting. Hermione gazed at the thestrals for a moment, ignoring the comments around her about the “charmed” carriages before climbing inside. Three other candidates were already there, and studiously ignoring each other. Wisely, Hermione kept her mouth shut as the carriage began to move. 

They were silent all the way up to the castle. The tension was palpable, and the ride seemed to last for far too long. Just when it began to get unbearable, the carriage stopped. Hermione got out as quickly as she could without losing any dignity. 

Hogwarts loomed above her, vast and unyielding. Hundreds of small windows lit up the castle’s facade, and towers soared skyward. Forty meters away, students streamed into the main door. A small door stood in front of her with a tall, thin man framed in it. Hermione strode closer, and was able to pick out the wizard’s features. Her stomach clenched. It was Malcolm Nott, the Requiem Coordinator. 

Weight settled onto her shoulders. Requiem was real, and happening now. The prospect was terrifying, and Hermione ruthlessly squashed down her emotions. She couldn’t afford to become frazzled. 

Nott loomed over her. “Your name?” 

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger.” 

“Your wand?” 

Hermione flexed her fingers, and her wand hissed out of her sheath into her open palm. Nott extended a stone tablet, and Hermione pressed her wand to it. The runes flared gold. Nott stepped aside.

“Proceed to the end of the corridor, and wait in the chamber.” 

Hermione passed through the doorway, savoring the warmth of the castle. The heels of her boots clicked softly against the flagstone floor. Glass globes filled with fire lined the walls, providing light to the corridor. Towards the end, the corridor widened into a small chamber with one wall charmed transparent to overlook the Great Hall. Sixteen candidates were clustered around the room, some talking quietly with each other, and others gawking at the Great Hall. 

Hermione recognized several of them by sight. They were the children of Death Eaters, and she knew their faces from the  _ Daily Prophet _ as well as from mirror coverage of previous Requiems. There was Edward Nott, the son of the Requiem Coordinator, and nephew of the Overseer of Tutshill. He was tall, like his father, with dark brown hair. Next to him stood Cordelia MacNair, daughter of the Dark Lord’s Executioner. Her head was tossed back in artificial laughter at something the third boy had said. He was tall for fifteen, standing about 200 centimeters tall, if she had to guess. He wore his ashy blonde hair long, and had the classic Black family cheekbones and jawline. In a word, he was incredibly attractive. 

Lifting her chin, Hermione dared to make eye contact, and much to her horror, Janus Lestrange beckoned her over. Projecting a confidence she didn’t feel, Hermione strode over. He smiled winningly at her, but his eyes remained a cold grey. Janus was the only one of the three Hermione somewhat knew, although watching him fight from the back hall of the Olympus Club couldn’t really be constituted as any sort of real knowledge, only extrapolated data. 

Janus Lestrange was a twisted sort of wizard, and treated his guest fights in the Olympus Club as a place to show off and humiliate his opponent. He preferred flashy spells over effective ones, was ruthless, and had an exhibitionist streak a kilometer wide. Despite his age, he was one of the most dangerous candidates in the room, both due to his magical abilities and due to his parents’ place in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. 

“Hello, Hermione,” he said warmly, as if they’d known each other for a long time, “I’d like you to meet two acquaintances of mine, Edward Nott, and Cordelia MacNair. Edward, Cordelia, this is Hermione Dagworth-Granger, my fellow candidate from London.” 

Edward looked pensive. “Dagworth-Granger...related to Corinth Dagworth-Granger?” 

“He’s my great-uncle.” 

“Ah. And your father is?” 

“Chesney Dagworth-Granger.” Hermione kept her features blank, waiting for the inevitable comment. Cordelia didn’t disappoint. 

“ _ Chesney _ Dagworth-Granger? Wasn’t he the one who fathered a bunch of bastards?” 

Hermione smiled, not allowing it to reach her eyes. “Personally, I prefer not to speak ill of my father or speculate on his activities.”

Cordelia tossed her hair. “It’s not as if you can really act offended. It was splashed all over the  _ Daily Prophet _ .” 

“How gracious of you to provide me with that information,” Hermione said dryly. 

Cordelia ignored the comment, or otherwise didn’t have the wits to comprehend it. “It’s not even as if it’s a problem for you, unless, of course, you were one of those bastards.” 

Hermione was silent for a moment, and Edward looked at her oddly. “Naturally.” 

Cordelia opened her mouth to continue on, but Janus interrupted before she could speak. 

“Ah, look, Cordelia, it’s Margaret Montague.” 

Cordelia pursed her lips. “That tart. I don’t even want to know which strings she pulled in order to get in here. At least she’s a pureblood, which is better than I can say for some of the trash they let in. Honestly, I don’t even understand why they allow halfbloods to compete; everyone knows that purebloods are always magically superior.”

Edward lay a placating hand on her arm. “Now, you know we have to at least let them  _ think _ they have an opportunity to succeed. It’s a game of bread and circuses. Keep the masses entertained, and they won’t cause any problems.” 

Cordelia huffed. “It’s such a waste of time,” she whined. Hermione desperately wanted to slap her. “They just aren’t good at magic.”

Hermione couldn’t resist any longer. “Nymphadora Black  _ won _ Requiem in 1989, and she was a halfblood.” 

Cordelia waved a hand. “She was a Metamorphmagus. Probably found a way to cheat the system, too.” 

“You do realize that’s my cousin you’re speaking poorly of,” Janus commented mildly. 

Cordelia froze. 

“Despite the circumstances of her birth, Nymphadora is a very capable witch,” Janus continued. “I’d like to see you be better than her.” 

Cordelia flushed. “Your mother would be disappointed to hear you defending a halfblood.” 

“My mother places a high value on family. Nymphadora has proven herself far more loyal to the Blacks, and has fully rejected her muggle roots. If you have problems with our opinions, you can speak with her. Or,” Janus added, almost as an afterthought, “you can face the end of my wand. Your choice.” 

Cordelia gulped, and was saved from answering by Malcolm Nott. 

“Requiem candidates, if I could have your attention.” 

Thirty-six pairs of eyes turned to look. Malcolm Nott was standing on an elevated platform towards the front of the room, and he looked vaguely disappointed. In all the years she’d watched Requiem through the mirror-vision, she didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile. 

“In a few minutes, you will be officially announced to Wizarding Britain. Your names and faces will be broadcast to our entire nation via the mirror broadcasting system. I suggest you ensure you look your best. The back table in the Great Hall is reserved for Requiem candidates. You will line up in order at this door, and I will announce your district and your name. You are to walk to the middle of the stage, pause, smile for the main mirror display, then you can continue to the back table. 

“After the Welcome Feast is over, I will meet you in the Great Hall and we will review the administrative details. In the meantime, enjoy the Sorting.” Nott pointed his wand towards the transparent wall, and the sound of applause rushed in.

“Aww, we missed the Sorting Hat’s song!” complained someone in the back. 

“Shh!” 

A dark haired wizard stepped forward, holding a long scroll. 

“That’s Xavier Rookwood, the Deputy Headmaster and Slytherin Head of House,” Janus said helpfully, edging into Hermione’s personal space. He was close enough that she could smell his scent, which smelled vaguely of rosewood. Hermione hated that it didn’t smell bad.

“When I call forth your name, please sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat on your head to be Sorted.” Rookwood looked down at the scroll. “Abbott, Rachael!” 

A pudgy girl with blonde pigtails nearly stumbled out of the line of first years, sat on the stool, and placed the raggedly hat on her head -- or rather, tried to. The hat was so large that it fell down over her eyes, completely obstructing her face. 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

“Avery, Megaera!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Black, Callisto!” 

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Black, Orion!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Beside her, Cordelia smirked. “I see they take after their father, the nasty blood traitor.” 

“Shut it, would you? Some of us want to watch our siblings and cousins be sorted, thank you.” 

“Crouch, Elladora!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

Hermione quickly lost interest in the Sorting ceremony. It was rather dull. 

“Grubbly-Plank, Ptolemy!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Hermione wished she’d conducted more research on Hogwarts prior to arriving. She’d read up on the historical context of the school, of course, but hadn’t thought to research the modern aspects.

“There goes my cousin,” Janus commented. 

“Lestrange, Alaric!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“And that’s my sister.” Hermione wondered why Janus was being friendly. Frankly, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to know. 

“Lestrange, Isla!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Malfoy, Phoenix!” was the only first year to strut to the stool instead of walk, and he was quickly sorted into Slytherin.

Hermione allowed her thoughts to drift, vaguely paying attention as “Pettigrew, Hope” became a Gryffindor. Finally, after several more boring minutes, the line of first years began to dwindle. 

“Rowle, Dorian!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Snape, Sebastian!” A lanky boy with a head full of braids strode forward, and confidently placed the hat on his head.

“SLYTHERIN!”

The last first year, “Zabini, Lucia” became a Slytherin as well, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. 

The Headmaster stood, dark hair glistening under the torchlight. “Welcome, all, to another year at Hogwarts, where the best minds of Britain come to grow. I am pleased to see such a talented group of new students joining our ranks, and I would like to extend a special welcome to all of you. I hope you all grow to love Hogwarts as much as the rest of us do. 

“With that, we still have another group of wizards to welcome into our home. This year’s Requiem candidates will be announced, some of them including our very own Hogwarts students. Malcolm?”

The Headmaster sat, and Malcolm Nott strode into view. 

“I suppose we should line up,” Hermione murmured. 

Edward Nott nodded in agreement, and everyone began to move towards the door. 

A light flashed behind the array of mirrors, and Malcolm Nott began to speak. “Welcome to the fourteenth Requiem. Thirty-six candidates wait beyond the door, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to compete for a spot in our Lord’s Inner Circle. For the next two months, the candidates will have access to resources at Hogwarts in order to hone their knowledge and skills for the competition to come. Now, without further ado, this year’s Requiem candidates will be announced. 

“From Appleby, Seamus Finnigan and Marleis du Feu… from Chudleigh, Eli Bell and Katie Bell… from Falmouth, Dean Thomas and Rachael Jiang…”

Hermione swallowed. It was almost their turn. 

“From Godric’s Hollow, Isaac Simpson and Fay Dunbar…”

Janus grabbed Hermione’s arm, and looped it through his own. 

“From London, Janus Lestrange and Hermione Dagworth-Granger…” 

Head held high, Hermione strode out across the platform, steps in sync with Janus. They stopped, faced the mirror display, and Hermione gave her most winning smile. Cheeks aching slightly, they made their way down the center aisle of the Great Hall and took seats at the table. Mercifully, the seat to Hermione’s left was empty, and she could only hope that someone decent sat next to her so she didn’t have to make small talk with Janus for the entire meal. 

Looking up, Hermione realized she’d missed several districts, and resolved to pay closer attention. After all, she needed to take stock of her competition. 

“From Puddlemere, Adrian Pucey and Margaret Montague… from Tutshill, Edward Nott and Iona Connelly… from Upper Flagley, Austin Cornfoot and Ana Khanna…”

Edward sat next to Hermione, and she heaved an internal sigh. Dinner was likely to be interesting, and not necessarily in a good way. 

“From Wimborne, Marcus Flint and Phoebe Dagworth… from Ballycastle, Sedwick Vane and Hortensia Twilfit…” 

Despite her better efforts, Hermione found it difficult to pay attention. 

“From Portree, Ayyubi Shafiq and Callia Lee...from Wigtown, Miles Bletchley and Cordelia MacNair…” 

Hermione sent up a silent prayer to the gods that all the seats around her were taken, and she wouldn’t have to talk to Cordelia. 

“From Caerphilly, Vaughn Viridian and Leah Asher… Lastly, from Holyhead, Sue Li and Kevin Entwhistle.” 

The final two candidates took their seats before Nott continued to speak. “Once again, I would like to welcome all our candidates to Hogwarts and offer them a few words of wisdom:  _ Et virtutis quidem imbecilliores petere. _ ”

Nott stood for a second longer, then exited the platform. The light behind the mirror display dimmed to dark, and the Headmaster stood. 

“Thank you, Malcolm. With those words in mind, I believe it is time for the Welcoming Feast.” The Headmaster clapped his hands twice, and immediately the tables were groaning under the weight of food. It was almost an absurd amount, and Hermione had to fight the urge to overeat. 

Once she felt she could eat no more, the food vanished, and was replaced with an equally large spread of desserts. Hermione allowed herself a small portion of custard, and watched in slight disgust as several of the candidates all but shoveled large portions of treacle tart and peppermint humbugs into their mouths. 

After what felt like far too long, dinner was over. Hermione heaved an internal sigh of relief, and thanked the gods that Janus Lestrange had found other people to talk to. 

The Headmaster stood, and the hall immediately fell silent. 

“I would like to once again take the opportunity to welcome all of you to the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. A few start of term reminders for students -- the Forbidden Forest, as its name so cleverly implies, is forbidden, and the list of banned items are located on the notice boards in your common rooms. Any student caught trespassing or otherwise breaking the rules will face detention or expulsion. 

“Informational meetings for House dueling teams will take place at the end of this week, and Quidditch tryouts will take place during the second week of classes. House-specific information can be found on the notice board in your common room.

“Students, you are dismissed.” 

A mass scraping sounded as hundreds of students pushed back their chairs and flooded out of the hall until only the Requiem candidates remained. 

The Headmaster spread his arms wide, blue eyes flashing. “Candidates, if you could be so kind as to move closer to the dias, I will impart upon you a few words of wisdom which will help you succeed if you are to enter my service. 

Hermione stood, and with a degree of trepidation, approached the Dark Lord.


	4. Meeting Nymphadora

_ In his great wisdom, the Dark Lord declared the establishment of eighteen wizarding districts. Per a new Ministry decree, all wizards are mandated by law to live in one of the sanctioned districts. Those who do not are subject to a minimum fine of 100 Galleons and/or a minimum of a six month sentence in Azkaban.  _

\--Excerpt from the  _ Daily Prophet,  _ 1982

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**

**1 September 1995**

**7:00 am**

Hermione woke with a start, heart pounding and wand clenched in her fist. It took an embarrassing amount of time to figure out where she was, and even longer to calm her racing heart. She took several breaths, slow and deep, and wormed her way out of the soft bed and padded to the ensuite. Quickly, she showered, marveling at the sleek tiles and endless hot water, then got dressed in the standard Requiem uniform of black trousers, a white blouse, and a grey robe emblazoned with the London sigil on the left breast. On her feet went a stylish pair of boots crafted from hydra hide. With a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation, Hermione bullied her hair into a tight set of braids that coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. A perfunctory look in the mirror told her her appearance was acceptable, and thusly attired with her bookbag in hand, Hermione made her way out of her quarters, down several flights of stairs, and into the side chamber off the Great Hall, which was reserved for Requiem candidates. 

The decor reminded Hermione strongly of an old Victorian smokers lounge, decorated as it were with dark wooden walls. Richly upholstered chairs with claw-and-ball feet surrounded ornately carved side tables, and chesterfields stood on either side of low tea tables. It gave off a rather posh air, and many of the poorer candidates were staring, once again, with their eyes wide. Hermione at least had the presence of mind not to stare, and carefully selected a croissant and bowl of fruit from the breakfast spread before settling herself in one of the armchairs. 

Today would be an important day for her, and she needed to make sure she was properly prepared. The department heads would be assessing candidates in each subject to provide a baseline skill level, then they would be set up with a former Requiem winner to act as a mentor for the observation period. Hermione silently vowed that no matter who she ended up with as a mentor, she would make the most of it. She’d studied old Requiem records, and knew that roughly five to ten percent of candidates would be eliminated during the first week of Requiem due to a failure to meet the Dark Lord’s stringent standards. Meanwhile, those performing in the top twenty percent academically were invited to a special luncheon and provided with the opportunity to network. 

Given that a significant portion of Requiem candidates had already graduated from Hogwarts, Hermione was going to need a small miracle to make that happen. 

The anxiety didn’t fully settle in until she finished her food and no longer had anything to keep her hands busy. Most of the other candidates were talking quietly amongst themselves, or otherwise frantically reading textbooks in a desperate effort to impress the evaluators. Hermione settled for floating a condensed copy of  _ 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi _ in front of her while using non-verbal Switching Spells to swap marbles between hands to keep her mind occupied. 

It was far too long, and yet far too soon when the professors strode in. Hermione recognized most of them from previous Requiems. Piotr Dolohov, head of the Transfiguration department, was a tall foreboding wizard with dark hair and a pointed beard. Horace Slughorn, the Potions head, and Pomona Sprout, the Herbology head, were both shorter and fatter than Hermione had thought. Filius Flitwick, the tiny head of the Charms department, had met all the candidates off the platform, and Lionel Runcorn, the Defense department head, had a sinister air to him that Hermione couldn’t quite pin down. 

Aside from Slughorn and Sprout, they made a rather intimidating group. There were other departments, of course, at Hogwarts, including Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Astronomy, and Alchemy, but they were not included in candidate testing. 

Malcolm Nott stood, and the room fell silent. “Attention, candidates. This morning, I have the pleasure of introducing you to our esteemed senior faculty members at Hogwarts, Professors Dolohov, Slughorn, Sprout, Flitwick, and Runcorn. Today, they will conduct an initial baseline test of your magical skills. You will be tested again during the first week of Requiem, and failure to meet the Dark Lord’s standards will result in your elimination. Is that clear?”

Around the room, everyone nodded. 

Nott’s eyes narrowed. “Good. It will behoove you to remember that the Dark Lord is not merely looking for proficiency, but also for creativity and efficiency in solving the problems the professors pose to you. Best of luck to each of you.” Nott stepped back, and Professor Dolohov stepped forward. 

“Leah Asher, Eli Bell, Katie Bell, Miles Bletchley, Austin Cornfoot, Iona Connolly, Randolph Curie, Phoebe Dagworth, and Hermione Dagworth-Granger, follow me.” 

Hermione stood, and followed Professor Dolohov. Apart from the Bell siblings, she didn’t know any of the other candidates, although Bletchley had already tried -- and failed -- to ingratiate himself with Janus Lestrange. Hermione wasn’t certain why people kept trying to do that; there could only be one winner of Requiem, and Janus had a clear history of using those around him to achieve his own ends. Perhaps they thought Janus was a worthy ally because of his family’s connections to the Dark Lord, and Hermione was perfectly content to let them dig their own graves. 

The heels of Hermione’s boots clicked hollowly against the stone floor as they made their way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts. Phoebe Dagworth shot her nasty glances all the way, and Hermione ignored them. The Dagworths and the Dagworth-Grangers had been at loggerheads for the past three hundred years over a petty dispute regarding six Kneazles, a pot of Leprechaun gold, and a poorly timed joke. Maximilian Dagworth had stormed out of his ancestral home in a fit of anger, and boldly appended his mother’s maiden name to his own, declaring himself Maximilian Dagworth-Granger. This act -- Maximilian Dagworth-Granger’s inability to have a decent sense of humor -- caused a rift between the two sides of the family that the Dagworths had been nurturing for centuries. Frankly, Hermione could care less. 

Professor Dolohov stopped them in front of a large classroom with a bench outside. “You will be tested individually in the art of Transfiguration. To obtain the highest results, you should not only solve the challenge efficiently, but also achieve an elegant and creative solution. Be aware that any attempts to share information will face severe consequences.” Professor Dolohov lingered over the last two words, and Hermione didn’t have to think particularly hard about what those consequences could be. 

“With that in mind, I’m certain I do not need to remind you to behave decorously. Miss Asher, you are first.” 

The blonde witch paled, and followed Professor Dolohov into the classroom. Hermione settled herself on the bench and consigned herself to waiting quietly. Of course, Phoebe Dagworth had other ideas. 

“So, Dagworth- _ Granger _ , I wasn’t aware that your kind came from London.” 

“So, Miss Dagworth,” Hermione echoed, tone aloof, “I wasn’t aware we were well acquainted enough to ask such personal questions.” 

Someone sniggered, and Phoebe blushed. It was not an attractive blush. “I heard about your father,” Phoebe said, with all the grace of a troll in a china shop, “my father said he was a disgrace, frequenting all the … unsavory … houses in Knockturn Alley. He said you were … illegitimate.” 

Hermione chose not to respond. 

“How does it feel,” Phoebe goaded, “to be the daughter of a fool?” 

Hermione smiled coldly. “I’d imagine it feels quite a bit better than being a fool myself.” 

Bletchley chuckled loudly, Katie Bell looked appalled, and the rest, excluding Eli Bell, didn’t seem to know how to respond. Eli simply had the same blank expression he’d had since Hermione met him on the train. Idly, Hermione wondered if he was in shock over the experience, or if there was something else going on. 

“Well, I never --” Phoebe started. 

“Oh, do shut up,” Bletchley cut in. “As amusing as this all is, I’m sure I’m not the only one who is tired of hearing your family drama, and some of us would like some quiet reflection time before taking the first part of an assessment that will determine  _ the rest of our lives. _ ” 

“Hmmph!” 

Thankfully, Phoebe shut her mouth, and Hermione allowed herself to settle into a meditative state. It was a similar state to the one she relaxed into before each fight at the Olympus Club, and it was one that left her feeling calm and focused. Hermione paid vague attention to the reactions of her fellow candidates, and everyone, excluding Bletchley, had looked somewhat shaken. Then again, Bletchley was the only one among them who had the privilege of attending Hogwarts, so it wouldn’t be surprising that he had a slight advantage. 

Hermione took a deep breath, and pushed away any lingering anxiety. This was about her, and her performance, not about anyone else. 

“Miss Dagworth-Granger.” 

Hermione followed Professor Dolohov into the classroom, shutting the door behind herself. 

“The Transfiguration practical,” Professor Dolohov began, “will start as a simple skills assessment, followed by several open ended problems. Please begin by Transfiguring this mouse --” he flicked his wand, and a fat mouse appeared on the desk in front of him “-- into a snuff box.” 

Hermione concentrated for a moment, then flicked her wand. The mouse turned into a rather lovely snuff box with a delicate trellis pattern. 

Professor Dolohov nodded. “Next, a tortoise into a teapot…” 

Hermione continued through a litany of Transfigurations, Switching Spells, and Vanishing Spells. Some of them were quite tricky, and Hermione despaired that she hadn’t done well enough. 

“The last task,” Professor Dolohov said quietly, “is a Conjuration.” 

Internally, Hermione balked. Conjuration was the most difficult part of Transfiguration, excluding the Animagus transformation. While she had gotten it right on occasion, she also had it go horribly wrong. 

“Conjure an item you would find useful.” 

Hermione’s heart beat faster. It was a terribly subjective question, and Hermione panicked for a moment, then calmed. She closed her eyes, remembering each of the fights at the Olympus club, and how the sandy floor felt under her feet. She pictured the sand rising, and forming into escrima sticks, each a solid, dependable weight in her hand. She pictured runes spiraling out from the grip, lending strength to the weapon, and in turn strength to herself. With a whispered word, she guided her wand through a complex series of motions, all while holding the picture of the escrima sticks at the forefront of her mind. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hermione opened her eyes. Before her lay a beautifully engraved pair of escrima sticks, just as she’d pictured them. 

Professor Dolohov eyed them thoughtfully. “An interesting choice. Thank you, Miss Dagworth-Granger, for your time.” 

Hermione exited the room, feeling even less certain than before about the results of her assessment. The rest of the day passed in a blur as their group was carted from one department to the next. Hermione could have completed the Defense assessment with her wandhand tied behind her back, and while the Charms assessment had some tricky questions, it hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she’d anticipated. Potions, on the other hand, had nearly been a disaster, but she’d narrowly avoided catastrophe thanks to her quick reflexes. While her Potion certainly hadn’t been the best, she hadn’t exploded her cauldron, which was a good starting point. Herbology had been a lot of guesswork, and Hermione made a mental note to spend significantly more time bringing her Potions and Herbology skills up to par. 

After a long day of close scrutiny, all Hermione wanted to do was curl up in her bed and pretend that the world didn’t exist. Unfortunately, that was the last thing she could do. She not only needed to wait for her scores to be announced, but she also needed to play nice with the other candidates during dinner. 

Hermione splashed some water onto her face, blotted it dry, and stared herself down in the mirror. Regardless of how she did on her preliminary assessment, she was determined to come out on top, even if that meant rubbing shoulders with wizards she truly despised. Squaring her shoulders, Hermione exited the toilet and headed towards the Great Hall. Janus Lestrange was already there, and holding court with Edward Nott and Cordelia MacNair. Hermione made eye contact, and the way he smiled at her made her skin crawl. Bracing herself, Hermione strode over. 

“Good evening, Janus.” 

“Good evening, Hermione,” Janus said smoothly, his smile even more disturbing in person. “I reserved you a seat.” 

“Thank you.” Hermione took the seat. Cordelia sneered, and Edward looked thoughtful. 

“How did you find the tests today?” Edward asked. 

“Not terrible,” Hermione said vaguely, “although I do need to brush up on my Herbology. And you?”

“Easier than expected. It was all familiar territory, especially given the N.E.W.T preparatory course I took this summer.” 

“ _ I _ thought it was stupid,” Cordelia interjected. “The questions were either so simple a first year could have solved them, or the most obscure and irrelevant facts. And I --”

“--graduated from Hogwarts. Yes, we are aware, you have already stated that three times during the last twenty minutes. It’s not exactly a monumental achievement considering all the successful candidates have or will have graduated from Hogwarts.” 

Cordelia opened her mouth, and a sharp look from Janus closed it. Hermione resisted the urge to fidget. The current line of conversation wasn’t particularly pleasant, and Hermione had no desire to be reminded of her personal failings. 

“Who are you hoping to have for a mentor?” Hermione asked, tactfully changing the subject. 

“Ideally, Cedric Diggory. He’s smart, charismatic, and won last year, so he’s abreast of all the latest schemes.” Edward raised an eyebrow knowingly. “If not him, Ian Montague would be acceptable, or even Podrick Parkinson. Pod won back in ‘90, so he has real-world experience that the others haven’t.”

Cordelia tossed her hair. “ _ I’m _ hoping for Mhairi Fergusson. The pride of Scotland, you know, and pureblood since before the time of the Good King MacBeth.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “The king who Imperius’d his muggle cousin in an attempt to rule Scotland?”

Cordelia looked at her disdainfully. “Of course. Do try to keep up. Mhairi is a hero back in Wigtown, and I know that if she is my mentor, I will become one too.” 

Hermione suppressed a snort.

Edward looked at her strangely. “Who are you hoping for, Hermione?” 

“I’m not certain. Everyone is extremely well-qualified,” Hermione said carefully. “Perhaps Aria Nott, or Nymphadora Black.” 

Something in Janus’ face changed. “My cousin? How… interesting.” 

“How do you mean, interesting? You said it yourself last night, Nymphadora is a very capable witch.” 

Janus’ face shifted again, and Hermione felt truly unsettled. There was something about his eyes that wasn’t quite right, and just looking at him disturbed her. Thankfully, the food arrived, and she was temporarily spared from making any further conversation. Everyone was quiet for a moment, and Hermione devoted her attention to consuming her slice of cottage pie. It was quite decadent, as was most of the food at Hogwarts, and Hermione had to be careful not to overeat. 

“So,” Janus began over dessert, “will you be watching the dueling tryouts next week?”

Hermione blinked at the nonsequiteur. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.” 

Janus delicately chewed a bite of tart. “You really ought to go.” 

“Is it the height of entertainment, here at Hogwarts?”

“At times.” Janus looked at her oddly. “Of course, it is always interesting to watch the Prewetts duel.” 

Hermione drew a blank. “The Prewetts?”

Edward nodded sagely from across the table. “The Prewetts. Old pureblood family, as I’m sure you know. They were born Weasleys -- that family is extinct now, far as we know -- right shame because for all they were blood traitors, they were Sacred Twenty-Eight.” 

“Watch yourself, Edward,” Janus said mildly.

Edward cleared his throat. “Anyhow, as I was saying, Ronald and Ginevra are the most skilled duelers here. As a matter of fact, they broke an International Dueling League record last year. Youngest pairs dueling team in IDL history to reach the Mamba division. Very impressive.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with them.” 

“Gryffindor table,” Edward said. “The two redheads sitting next to each other.” 

Hermione subtly glanced over. Despite sharing the same color hair, Ronald and Ginevra were a study in opposites. Even while seated, it was clear that Ronald was tall while Ginevra was petite. His face was rounder, and more open, while hers was sharp and pointed. They were in the middle of an intense conversation, and Ronald jabbed aggressively with a fork to underscore a point. A glob of mashed potatoes flew off, and Ginevra grinned as Ron scowled. 

“Twins or just siblings?” Hermione asked. 

Janus gave a low chuckle, raising the hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck. “Just siblings.” He glanced over at the Prewetts, and something about his eyes made a shiver run down Hermione’s spine.

“I suppose I ought to go then,” Hermione said carefully, “and see what exactly is so interesting about these Prewetts.” 

There was a measure of silence, and a prickling sensation rushed over Hermione’s skin. 

Janus nodded, something still not right about his eyes. “Then I will see you there.” 

The prickling sensation passed, and Hermione resisted the urge to shudder. There was something wrong about Janus Lestrange. The more Hermione thought about it, the less she liked it and the more confused she became. What was wrong with Janus Lestrange, and why couldn’t she put a finger on it?

Hermione spent the rest of the meal idly pushing the remains of her cottage pie around her plate, unable to focus on consuming the rest of it. The scores from the preliminary testing would be released following dinner, as well as mentor decisions. While none of the scores were publicly announced, the mentor decisions would be, and there seldom were more than three top candidates assigned to each mentor. 

Dinner faded into dessert, and Hermione helped herself to a small slice of treacle tart, firmly telling herself there was no need to stress. She couldn’t do anything to change her scores or to choose her mentor. All she needed to do was hold out hope that she wasn’t one of the worst candidates and that she didn’t get stuck with a repulsive pureblood as a mentor. 

Of course, they thought she was, at worst, a halfblood bastard so it likely wouldn’t be terrible -- unless she was assigned to Bjorn Rowle or Atticus Warrington. Both were blood purists in the most extreme sense of the word, and Bjorn had a rather nasty reputation in Knockturn Alley that was only superseded by that of his brother, Thorfinn. Bjorn had been banned from Olympus Club for a short time due to certain behaviours, and only had been reallowed entrance after a significant bribe. 

At least, if he was her mentor, Hermione would know exactly what she was getting into, and know exactly what not to say. Atticus Warrington, on the other hand, she only knew by reputation. He was the type of pureblood who didn’t have a distinguished pedigree, and felt he needed to make up for that fact by flaunting his family’s status in the Dark Lord’s ranks. Given that the Warringtons weren’t terribly important in the grand scheme of things, Atticus’ ability to talk them up was rather impressive. 

Hermione picked at her treacle tart. She just had to trust that everything would work out alright. It certainly was something that was easier said than done. Hermione took a moment to steady herself. There was no need to get worked up; there was nothing she could do to change her future mentor. Besides, she definitely didn’t want to show weakness to anyone. 

A soft ping sounded from the front of the Great Hall, and all conversation immediately died. The Headmaster stood. “Candidates, make your way to the candidates’ lounge. Your mentors will be announced shortly.” 

The general hubbub resumed once the Headmaster returned to his seat. The candidates stood as one, and exited the Great Hall as Hermione tried to brace herself for what was to come. It was a slight exaggeration to pretend that her mentor would govern her overall success in Requiem, but it was a definite factor. Hermione took a deep breath, and sternly told herself she would not allow her nerves to get to her. Such worrying was a waste of energy, and she had more productive things to do. She had to master her emotions, the way she would before a fight at the Olympus Club. This, somehow, was no more different than going into battle.

All the candidates settled themselves in the candidates' lounge, and Hermione once again had the misfortune of sitting near Janus and his posse. It seemed her fellow London candidate was determined to keep her close; for what reason, Hermione didn’t know, and she was certain it was nothing good. 

Malcolm Nott took his place on the small dais at the front of the lounge. “Silence, please,” he said unnecessarily. “The Requiem mentors will be announced in a few moments. Do not leave your seat until all the mentor-candidate pairs have been announced. You will have the opportunity to become acquainted with your mentor after the announcements have been completed.” Nott surveyed the room, fixing each of them with his piercing gaze. Hermione looked back blandly, feeling rather unfazed. 

“Without further ado, I will introduce the mentors, beginning with the most recent champion, Cedric Diggory!” 

Cedric strode across the stage, and gave them all a cheery wave. Hermione narrowed her eyes; she knew Cedric’s cheeriness was an act that hid the ruthless wizard underneath. Cedric had begun Requiem looking like the perfect photograph of Hufflepuff goodwill and naivety, but as the competition progressed, it had become clear that Cedric was capable of as much violence as any other candidate. 

“Hello all,” Cedric said, Hufflepuff guise firmly in place. “I am eager to serve as a mentor to three of you in this year’s Requiem. I will be around Hogwarts for the duration of the competition since I am currently finishing my seventh year of schooling. I am excited to get to know my mentees, Edward Nott, Eli Bell, and Dean Thomas!”

Applause rang for a moment. 

“Next, the 1994 champion, Aria Nott!”

Aria Nott was precisely the sort of witch Hermione hoped to be. Powerful, driven, and somehow in control of her curly hair, Aria exuded a casual confidence Hermione tried to emulate. 

Aria’s speech was far shorter than Cedric’s, and she wasted no time announcing her three mentees, Katie Bell, Iona Connolly, and Callia Lee. The next two mentors, Atticus Warrington and Ian Montague, went by in a similar wave of pureblood pretentiousness. After them came Mhairi Fergusson, the so-called Pride of Scotland. 

Hermione could easily see why that was true. Mhairi had to be at least 180 centimeters tall, and had a quiet air of power about her. Unlike Aria, Mhairi didn’t bother to restrain her wild curls; however, unlike Hermione, Mhairi managed to look professional. Hermione internally winced when Mhairi announced her mentees -- Cordelia had got her fondest wish, and most certainly wouldn’t shut up about it for the next week. 

Podrick Parkinson was next, and Hermione only listened long enough to hear him announce Sedwick Vane, Sally-Anne Perks, and Sue Li as his mentees. She knew full well who was after Podrick, and she hoped with every fiber of her being that she’d get her wish. 

Nymphadora Black entered the room, and Hermione’s heart jumped in her mouth. There was something about her that simply oozed easy confidence and power. Nymphadora paused in the middle of the dais, and took a moment to study them all. 

Hermione’s heart thudded harder. 

“As you all know,” Nymphadora began, “I am Nymphadora Black and a member of the Dark Lord’s personal guard. My mentees are Devorah Goldstein, Kevin Entwhistle, and Hermione Dagworth-Granger.” 

All Hermione could do was stare before the logical side of her brain snapped into overdrive and schooled her face back to neutral. She could hardly believe her luck. Nymphadora Black, the first halfblood Requiem champion, was her mentor. It took all her self control to prevent a nasty grin from sliding across her face. With any luck, Nymphadora could help Hermione win Requiem and finally decipher what secrets Janus was hiding.


	5. Beginnings

_ Perhaps no wizard has achieved greater success at the Dark Lord’s side than Severus Snape. Snape, the current Overseer of Hogsmeade and viewed by many as the Dark Lord’s protegé, started from humble roots. Snape’s mother, Eileen, was a member of the venerable Prince family. His father, however, was a lowly Muggle laborer. Through hard work and unquestionable magical talent, Snape was able to work himself high into the Dark Lord’s inner circle, proving that all members of our society can flourish given the proper determination, work ethic, and devotion to our Lord. _

\--Excerpt from Rita Skeeter’s 1987 book,  _ Behind the Mask: Severus Snape _

**Hogsmeade, Scotland**

**1 September 1995**

**11:30 pm**

Severus sipped his whiskey and stared blankly into the fire. He was bone tired. Days like today only served to remind him that he was getting old. This was one of the days when his bones ached, and neither the heat of the fire nor the false warmth of whiskey could warm them. He wasn’t sure whether this was because he  _ was _ getting old -- he was only thirty-five, Merlin damnit -- or due to the prolonged Crutiatus exposure he’d endured in his youth. 

Severus pulled the blanket higher on his lap, and absently took another sip of whiskey. The Death Eaters had changed drastically since he’d joined at the age of seventeen. What had initially been a radical political group had changed to active terrorists -- or brave vigilantes, depending on who you asked -- to the power upholding Magical Britain. Most of them had families now, even the more wild of them had settled down and become domesticated. Hell, many of them had children starting Hogwarts this year. 

It was rather disgusting, now that he thought about it. All of them had gone from being raging sacks of hormones post-Hogwarts to being relatively functional adults. There were several glaring exceptions, of course, and several who were proficient in both adulthood and insanity. Bellatrix Lestrange fell squarely into the second group. The Overseer of London was a sadist, and motherhood certainly hadn’t softened her. Even worse, she’d passed on her foulest traits to her son. 

Janus Lestrange was a menace. There were no two ways about it. He was one of the best duelists of his age, defeated only by Ronald Prewett, and forced into a draw with Draco Malfoy. He was arrogant, sadistic, and freely took liberties with witches. Bellatrix, of course, saw no error in her son’s ways, and encouraged him. Severus had observed Janus from the shadows of Olympus Club, and unlike Hermione, who fought to continue her existence, Janus fought for the thrill. He would goad lesser wizards into guest fighting him, and utterly decimate them. His psychopathic tendencies were on display to anyone who cared to see them -- not that anyone did. 

For Severus, it was clear as day. He’d always been observant, and his skill in Legilimency allowed him to gather information directly from other wizards’ minds. For all that Janus Lestrange was a menace, he was a fifteen year old boy who’d never bothered to properly protect his mind. Janus had learned basic Occlumency, of course -- Bellatrix was paranoid enough to force both her children to learn -- but they were the efforts of an unwilling child already interested in darker subjects. 

Severus had seen horrors in Janus’ mind. There were certain things no wizard should think of, especially not a fifteen year old. He would never forget the images he saw in the twisted mind of the boy who saw himself as the next Dark Lord.

The stairs creaked, and Severus started. 

“It’s just me,” Aurora said softly. 

Severus sighed. “I know.”

“You’re drinking again.”

“Mm.”

Aurora gently took the glass out of his hand. “I wish you wouldn’t.” 

Severus kept staring at the fire. “I’m not my father,” he said softly. 

“I never said you were. I just...worry.” 

“You don’t need to,” Severus said shortly. 

Aurora laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “I’m your wife; it’s my job to worry.” 

“Worry about our children, not me.”

Severus felt, rather than heard, Aurora’s sigh as she settled her chin on his shoulder. “Don’t be daft.” 

“I--”

“Shh. Let’s go to bed; it’ll be better in the morning.”

Severus didn’t respond.

“Severus?”

“It’s Requiem. It can only get worse.”

“And there’s nothing you can personally do about it,” Aurora said firmly. 

Severus sighed.

“You need sleep. Both of us do.”

Severus reluctantly allowed himself to be led upstairs, mind still spinning with thoughts of Requiem.

* * *

**The Lazy Hippogriff, London**

**1 September 1995**

**11:55 pm**

Nymphadora Black was on her way to getting well and thoroughly pissed. She eyed the remaining Firewhiskey in her glass and knocked it back. 

“Really, Black? You think your picks are that bad?” 

Nymphadora ignored Rowle and signaled the barkeep for another drink. 

“You got what, the halfblood bastard and two idiots?” Rowle jibed, sliding onto the stool next to her and nearly spilling his ale in the process. “What will the Dark Lord think of your planning then?” 

“He won’t give a whit,” Nymphadora replied shortly. 

Rowle’s eyes narrowed. “How can you know that?”

Nymphadora downed more Firewhiskey. “Rowle, are you seriously trying to threaten me in a pub?” She snorted lightly. “That’s low, even for you.” 

Rowle slammed his tankard on the bar, spilling copious amounts of ale. “I can end you, Black,” he said in the overly precise words of a drunk, “One word from me to the right pair of ears about you favoring halfbloods, and it’ll be game over for you. Your precious favor with the Dark Lord won’t last long when he realizes you're just a jumped up halfblood.” 

In less than a heartbeat, Nymphadora drew her wand, and jabbed it into Rowle’s throat. His eyes went wide. “Don’t fucking presume to threaten me,” she hissed. “I won Requiem on pure merit, and while I might be a halfblood, my blood is far purer than yours.” 

Their argument quickly was drawing attention, and Nymphadora flicked her wand. Rowle collapsed onto the floor, head bashing into the stool on the way down. The pub owner bustled over. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to --”

Nymphadora cut him off. “This wizard was making threats against my person.” She nudged Rowle with her toe. “And clearly, he’s had far too much to drink.” 

The barkeep looked at her, then at Rowle. “Seems to me like there was a bit more of a disturbance.”

Nymphadora raised her left hand, ostensibly to push back her hair, and allowed the sleeve of her robe to fall back. The barkeep’s eyes bulged, and Nymphadora pulled her sleeve back over the Dark Mark. “I see we understand each other?” 

The barkeep opened his mouth, then closed it. “My apologies, Ms. Black.” 

“None needed,” Nymphadora replied easily. “I’m glad you can understand where I’m coming from.” She slipped the man a few Galleons. “It may be best to call the Aurors,” she said, voice just loud enough to carry throughout the bar. “It’s not the first time Rowle’s gotten like this after a few drinks.” 

“Bjorn Rowle? He was a --”

“He won in ‘88, yeah. Still can’t hold his beer.” Nymphadora kicked him again. “He’s not going to be waking up anytime soon.” She eyed the glass in her hand, no longer feeling the need to get pissed. Feeling disgusted with herself, she turned on the spot and disapparated. 

She inhaled deeply. No matter how thoroughly 12 Grimmauld Place was cleaned, a faint smell of dust and decay hung in the air. It had bothered her when she’d initially moved in with her mother when she was nine, but she’d gotten used to it over the years. She’d hated 12 Grimmauld Place at first; it’d been dark, dusty, and full of Dark antiques. Somehow, in the intervening years, it’d turned into home. Admittedly, she didn’t stay there often anymore. Her work for the Dark Lord resulted in frequent travel, and as a Requiem mentor, she had a temporary suite at Hogwarts. 

Nymphadora slowly made her way up to the third floor. After her mother’s very public divorce of her father in 1982, the two of them moved into 12 Grimmauld Place. Nymphadora remembered the early years with her father fondly, but he’d apparently been a bad man. Her mother refused to talk about him, and had done all the paperwork to legally change their surnames to Black. To this day, Nymphadora wasn’t sure if her father was dead or alive. 

She paused on the stairs. Light was streaming out of the drawing room, and she had the feeling someone had forgotten to shutter the Everburning Flames. It wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened. Sighing, she plodded down the hallway and into the drawing room. Much to her surprise, it was occupied.

Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. “You’re up late.” 

The man in the chair started, and several sheets of parchment scattered. “Dora! I thought you’d be up at Hogwarts.”

“I was out at the pub and didn’t want to Floo back to Scotland. What’re you up to, reading?”

Sirius made a helpless gesture. “Somewhat? I couldn’t sleep. It’s too quiet here, with all the kids gone. It doesn’t bother Astra --  _ she _ kicked me out of bed because I was too fidgety. Told me to go get Dreamless Sleep or something.”

“So you ended up in the drawing room.”

Sirius nodded.

“Reading.”

“And writing,” Sirius said, gesturing towards the parchment. “Running the family business, of course.”

Nymphadora snorted. All the Black family investments were handled by the goblins. “Sure.” 

Sirius made a face. “It’s actually family business. Lucius sent me a letter.”

“What does he want?”

“To, ah, ‘engage in a mutually profitable venture’.” 

“The Knockturn Alley sort of venture?”

Sirius shrugged. “Dunno. Probably funding some sort of propaganda scheme -- oh, don’t look at me like that,” Sirius added after seeing Nymphadora’s disproving expression. “Just because you work for Him doesn’t mean you can’t admit it’s propaganda.” 

“I’m going to bed. Make sure you ward the door properly so light doesn’t flood the hall. The last thing we need is another doxie invasion.” Nymphadora turned on her heel, and left. Behind her, Sirius breathed a sigh of relief and cast a veritable wall of wards at the door. 

He waited for a moment, ensuring he was completely alone, and pulled back the heavy Oriental carpet under his desk. Sirius drew a thin silver dagger from the pocket of his robes, and carefully sliced open the palm of his hand. Taking a deep breath, Sirius smeared the blood across the floorboards, and the Black crest flared as if it’d been burned into the floor. The boards melted away, and Sirius carefully climbed into the hidden room. It was small, and the walls were covered with photographs. There was no furniture, only a small box in the corner. 

With a whispered word and flick of his wand, Sirius opened it and withdrew a small piece of parchment -- one of several that rested in the box. Sirius cupped the parchment in his hands for a heartbeat, then blew on it softly. 

An outline of a phoenix flashed gold as the parchment burst into flame. Sirius stared longingly at the largest photograph where a tall, messy haired wizard stood next to a witch with long red hair. 

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, James. One day, I’ll finally see everything right.”

* * *

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**

**2 September 1995**

**6:50 am**

Hermione awoke with a start when her curtains were blasted aside. Instinctively, she reached out with a blast of wandless magic as she bolted upright, hand reaching for her wand. Her fingers closed around the handle, the incantation for  _ Stupify _ on her lips when her arms and legs snapped together. 

A voice chuckled over her shoulder. “Better than I was expecting.”

Hermione lay on her bed, helpless and furious, as the owner of the voice made their way into her field of vision. Nymphadora Black stood over her, hair tumbling down in wild black waves and steel in her grey eyes. With a flick of Nymphadora’s wand, Hermione could move again. Hermione sat up, wand leveled at her mentor. 

“How did you get in here?”

“Carefully. You did better than expected.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” 

Nymphadora smirked. “You had a quicker response to my forced entry than I anticipated. I find it’s a good way to test my new mentees -- gives me a clear picture of how you instinctively react to situations, and what sort of offensive magic you’ve been exposed to. The baseline exams let me know what I’m working with, but I’ve found this is far better.” Nymphadora cocked her head to the side. “You have a particular bent towards offensive magic.”

Hermione kept her face blank. “Do I?”

“Don’t play stupid. I’ll need to assess your skills more to determine the best avenue for you to progress. Meet me in Dueling Chamber Three once you’ve dressed.” 

“Where is that?”

Nymphadora scrutinized her again. “Right. You didn’t go to Hogwarts. I’ll wait outside your quarters and show you.”

Hermione bit back a sarcastic reply as Nymphadora left. Out of all the things she’d expected from Requiem, this wasn’t one of them. She knew, of course, that mentors typically took a hand in training their mentees. However, the mentor-mentee training wasn’t broadcast, so Hermione had no idea what to expect. She’d had some vague concept of classroom style lessons, and an aloof mentor recommending her book after book on etiquette. 

Nymphadora’s hands-on approach wasn’t what she’d anticipated. Of course, the older witch could simply be evaluating Hermione to determine if she was even worth the attention. If previous Requiem patterns held true, each mentor was given one strong candidate, and the other two typically were weaker. Hermione didn’t know anything about Nymphadora’s other two mentees, and she silently resolved to remedy that as soon as possible. 

Hermione quickly got dressed in clothes practical for dueling -- loose trousers bound snugly around her calves, a blouse with snug sleeves, and her dragonhide boots. Her wand sheath went on her right arm, and her burgundy over robe completed the look. Hermione eyed her escrima sticks thoughtfully. Unfortunately, they’d be all but useless in a wanded duel, as they were most effective in close quarters. Hermione bit her lip thoughtfully. If there was a way she could charm them, however, perhaps they could become useful. 

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione exited her quarters to where her mentor was waiting.

Nymphadora gave her a brusque nod. “Good to see you’ve got some common sense. Dueling chambers one through five are located in the dungeons,” Nymphadora continued as they walked. “You’ll be spending a lot of your time there. While you have good reflexes, you’ll need a significant amount of practice on spell work. I’m going to be quite frank with you, Hermione -- you have a distinct disadvantage not attending Hogwarts.”

“I’m aware.”

“Mm. I’m sure my aunt made that clear to you when you were selected.” 

“There was...advice given about observing proper etiquette,” Hermione said delicately. “But others have expressed that opinion.”

Nymphadora eyed her shrewdly. “My cousin?”

“His friends.”

“Ah. Cordelia would do that.”

“She is of the opinion that anyone who is not a pureblood and Hogwarts educated doesn’t have a chance at winning.” 

“As offensive as you may find that, Cordelia isn’t incorrect. All the Requiem winners to date have attended Hogwarts, and I was the first -- and so far the only -- halfblood winner.”

“I’ll have to change that, then,” Hermione said stoutly. 

“You won’t have an easy path ahead of you.”

“I did my research.”

“You’ll need to work at least twice as hard as any other candidate,” Nymphadora said quietly. “I don’t say this to discourage you, but to be honest.”

“I understand.”

“These are the Dueling Chambers,” Nymphadora said abruptly, gesturing to the row of doors in front of them, each labeled with a heavy bronze number. “Once the Hogwarts Dueling Team begins practicing, they will be in chambers one through three. Requiem candidates have access to chambers four and five. Three’s my favorite, so we’ll be using that one today.”

“Why’s it your favorite?” Hermione asked curiously. 

Nymphadora cracked a grin. “I spent a lot of time there during my Hogwarts years. Dueling room three is where the Mamba division practices, and I was moved up to the Mamba division at the beginning of four year.”

“Isn’t that early?”

Nymphadora nodded. “I had a lot to prove. I was a halfblood Black in Hufflepuff, and clumsier than a three-legged hippogriff. Needless to say, most people didn’t take too kindly to that.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. Nymphadora was one of the many witches in the Dark Lord’s retinue that moved with the perfect, liquid grace that seemed to be bred into every pureblood.

“You’re skeptical of something, out with it. Surprised I was a Hufflepuff?”

“No. I’m surprised you were clumsy.”

Nymphadora’s mouth tightened, and her eyes darkened imperceptibly. “I was quickly...discouraged not to be.” She tapped her wand against the bronze three, and the door swung inwards. “Follow me.” 

Hermione followed her into the chamber. Dueling Chamber Three was similar to the other dueling chambers she’d seen broadcasted during the later stages of Requiem. Bleacher-like seats lined the walls, and the center of the room contained a sunken oval ring ten meters wide and fifteen meters long. The entire chamber was made of black granite, and Hermione could feel the hum of magic in the walls. 

Nymphadora made her way down to the ring. “The chamber is already outfitted with dueling wards to prevent magical backlash, and protect spectators, should there be any. The wards are activated with a small clockwise twist, along with the incantation  _ incipio _ . Try activating them.”

“ _ Incipio! _ ” Something in the room changed, and Hermione could see a shield shimmering along the perimeter of the ring.

“Good. Take your place.” 

Hermione backed up several meters, and raised her wand. Nymphadora conjured a white handkerchief and levitated it with a flick of her wand. “When the handkerchief reaches the floor, we begin.”

Hermione’s senses honed in on the handkerchief, mind whirling as she planned out her first attack. She couldn’t remember Nymphadora’s exact fighting style, but she did know the other witch was very fast. 

The handkerchief hit the floor, and Hermione was blasted into the air.


End file.
